


Under Oath

by tiigi



Category: Servant (TV 2019)
Genre: Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:08:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Really, he only seeks her out to gloat. He wants to see her scared and hurt and confused, laugh at her fear and scoff at any tentative pleas for help she might make. He wants to ask her how it feels, to be the one afraid. There is a nasty, vindictive streak of darkness inside him, slashing him in half from head to toe, that wants to see her cry, that wants to twist the knife.
Relationships: Leanne Grayson/Julian Pearce
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Under Oath

**Author's Note:**

> I would die for Leanne Grayson

Julian finds her after Uncle George leaves. Really, he only seeks her out to gloat. He wants to see her scared and hurt and confused, laugh at her fear and scoff at any tentative pleas for help she might make. He wants to ask her how it feels, to be the one afraid. There is a nasty, vindictive streak of darkness inside him, slashing him in half from head to toe, that wants to see her cry, that wants to twist the knife.

In the end, he doesn’t do any of that. He finds her in her bedroom, kneeling by the bed, hands clasped in front of her. The door clicks shut behind him but she doesn’t flinch. She is frozen in a perpetual flinch anyway; her hair hangs like a curtain over her face, her expression hidden away. 

He wants to tuck it behind her ear.

Her eyes are red, when she looks up at him. Her mouth is red too, lips bitten sore in a bout of anxiety. She’s deathly pale, blinking up at him, dressed only in a skimpy nightdress that does nothing to hide the awkward angles of her body. Julian has never been a religious person, even when his father tried to push it onto him as a fractured teenage addict. He has never prayed before, outside his few supervised visits to church, and even then he had to be a smartass. 

_Dear God,_ he would think. _Grant me the fucking patience to make it through another hour of this. Dear God, grant me the wisdom to find a better hiding place next time. At least he hasn’t found the coke. Thank God for small blessings._

He never took confession very seriously.

But Leanne - she takes it seriously. She blinks up at him with big, expectant eyes, and lightning fast an image flashes behind his eyes. Leanne, head tilted, her delicate hand hesitant and curious over his dick. He wills it away.

He wants to fuck her. 

It’s been simmering in the back of his mind for weeks, ever since he first met her. He’d been expecting some ancient bag of bones wielding a cane in one hand and a baby bottle in the other. He hadn’t been expecting– well, her. 

He wonders what she would do if he kissed her right now; if he joined her on his knees, cupped her face, pressed his lips to hers. Would she let him fuck her, right here underneath the crucifix she hung on the wall? 

Distantly, a baby cries. _The_ baby. It is cut off with an alarming suddenness, but Dorothy’s hushed voice drifts down the hall a second later. Tension stretches tight in his chest.

“Julian,” she says at last. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him. “Do you need help?”

Julian watches her with narrowed eyes. It’s a good act, most of the time. She pretends to be so nice and so sweet and so fucking responsible. She pretends in front of Dorothy, mostly, because she knows Sean is too much of a bitch to throw her out without Dorothy’s explicit permission. She’s got them all figured out, and she adapts her act to suit them all.

But this… this act is obvious. This act is one Julian has seen every day of his life, staring back at him with dull, lifeless eyes. This time, she is pretending to be alright.

“No,” he says harshly. She looks down at her clasped hands and does not stand up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Soft spoken, like everything she says is soft spoken. She’s lying.

“We can call the police, if you want. If you’re scared.”

 _That_ gets her attention. She looks up suddenly, gaze pinning him to the spot, impenetrable and fiery. He doesn’t know what he sees in those eyes, but for a moment, she looks fearless. For a moment, Julian is scared.

“We don’t need to call the police,” she says simply. “But thank you. It’s very kind to offer.”

Julian nods and drags his feet. He always feels so fucking awkward in front of her, like she can turn him inside out with just a look. Rage bubbles in his stomach. He doesn’t want to leave just yet. He wants to pick a fight.

“You got any other nutjob relatives we should know about? Anyone else that might come to collect you?”

Leanne doesn’t reply for a long time. After an ugly pause, she gets gracefully to her feet and steps closer. Like this, she’s almost as tall as he is. 

“It’s very kind of you to check on me, Julian,” she says. “But I’m very tired now.”

Julian nods, feeling thoroughly dismissed. He turns to leave, wants to stay, wants to turn back and take her by the shoulders and shake her, demand answers. He wants to scream her to get the fuck out of here.

She stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her lower lip is caught tantalisingly between her teeth.

“Would you like to pray with me? For Jericho? I always pray for Jericho last.”

 _If you’re going to pray for anyone,_ he thinks, _let it be me. I need it the most, not some dead fucking baby._

“No,” he says sharply. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

Her hand slides from his shoulder to his neck, her palm clammy and cold against his skin. She’s always so cold, like she walks with her own personal rain cloud above her head. Her fingers are icicles, pressing needily into the heat of Julian’s body. 

“Julian,” she says again. “Will you kiss me?”

He sucks in a sharp breath. She has always been strange, shockingly blunt. She acts as though she doesn’t know how to talk to people, how to convince others that she’s normal, which is odd considering how expertly she plays Dorothy. 

_No,_ is on the tip of his tongue. _Go fuck yourself._

But, of course, that would never be his answer. He is leaning in before he can stop himself, tangling a hand in her hair, winding it round and round his hand. Her lips move against his. She tastes like toothpaste. She was going to bed before he interrupted. 

He kisses her harder, deeper, moves his tongue against hers. Teaches her how to kiss. Moves her head with his hands, tilts it the way he wants it, feels the slight curves of her body pressed against his chest. He shudders when they finally separate. His lips feel cold and numb when he brings a hand to touch them.

“Thank you, Julian,” Leanne says, eyes slightly wide, hair slightly mussed. Those are the only tell tale signs of what they did. Otherwise, she looks perfectly put together. He wonders what he looks like. “Would you close the door on your way out?”

He nods helplessly. He _feels_ helpless. What the fuck has she done to them? To all of them? What happened to this family? Was the damage already irreparable before Leanne came along? His hands twitch. He’s dying for a fucking cigarette.

Before he leaves, he risks one more look over his shoulder. She looks tiny in that bed all alone, swamped under the covers. Her hair makes her look like a wraith, half cast in shadows, eyes black in the darkness. A separate, wooden crucifix hangs in the window, and the moonlight behind it casts a shadow-cross over the bed. 

Julian swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He still tastes toothpaste on his tongue. 

“Keep your fucking freakshow family away from mine, alright?” He says through a clenched jaw, voice trembling. 

She doesn’t reply. 

Julian shuts the door behind him. 


End file.
